


Take a Walk on the Wild Side

by Nepenthene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bisexual Dean Winchester, Case Fic, Dean Doesn't, Dean Winchester Hates Witches, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Early in Canon, Gay Bar, Gay Panic, Hex Bags (Supernatural), Internal Conflict, M/M, Sam Winchester is So Done, Sam Winchester is a nerd, Sam knows what's going on, Seduction, Unconventional Hunting, When does he ever though?, classic rock references, coming out jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27808525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nepenthene/pseuds/Nepenthene
Summary: A case in Portland, Oregon is causing considerably more trouble for the boys than they'd anticipated. The witch they're after is a slippery son of a bitch, and it looks like he's gearing up for something big. But no one's infallible, and Sam strikes gold when he figures out where the witch has been finding his victims.The only problem: it's a gay bar. But they're a week in, the kill count is rising, and time is running out.So someone's gonna have to seduce a witch.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 87





	Take a Walk on the Wild Side

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, SO. This has been sitting in my folder for a while, and I don't know why I haven't posted it yet. But I love this idea, I love what I've written, and I hope y'all love it too!
> 
> By the way, a little shoutout: my friend InkOfEmrys has a heart-achingly beautiful, INCREDIBLY written fic they're working on right now called [To Be Angelic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26903830/chapters/65651281). I HIGHLY recommend you check it out and come die in the comments with me, because it is AMAZING. SERIOUSLY. PLEASE GO DO IT. Destiel done subtly, sweetly, and just so, _so right._

God. How is it that they always end up here? 

Grimacing, Dean shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat of the Impala and gives the bar outside the stink-eye. “Is this really necessary?”

Sam looks over at him and raises his eyebrows. “Uh, yeah. This guy is way too good. We can’t just go in with our guns blazing and hope for the best, you know that. You saw what he did to Hank.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure.” Rolling his eyes in contrived nonchalance, Dean lets out a shaky breath. “Fine.” Turning to Sam, he points a warning finger at his face. “You never breathe a word of this. To anyone.”

Sam smiles blithely at Dean’s death glare. “Wouldn’t dream of it. We get this thing over with, and it’ll be like it never happened. That is,” he says smugly, “as long as you actually make it in the door.”

“You know what, you can shut the hell up. I’m the one doing all the damn work here. Fuck you.” 

Dean ducks out of the car and closes the door a little harder than he usually would on his evilly-cackling asshole of a brother. (Sorry, Baby.) Irritably, he reaches down and tugs ineffectually on the crotch of his stupid new jeans, trying to make them feel a little less like they’re going to castrate him as he turns from the car and squares his shoulders. He can do this. A couple shots of tequila and he’ll be fine. Yeah. No problemo.

Ignoring the swoop of anxiety in his gut as he steps away from the car, Dean Winchester grits his teeth and stomps towards a gay bar to seduce a witch.

  
— - —

_3 days earlier_

“So, uh, Dean.”

Sam closes the door of their motel room behind him, and Dean looks up from the gun he’s cleaning. “Hey. You figure out a way to get this guy?”

Shrugging off his jacket and pulling a weird face, Sam says, “I found something. Apparently there’s this bar downtown that he goes to pretty often. I’ll bet that’s where he finds his victims.”

Sweet. Routines are _great_. “Awesome. So we go in, pal it up with Sabrina, and stick ‘im with a silver knife when he least expects it. Simple.”

Sam scrunches up his forehead. “Not exactly.”

Frowning, Dean puts down his cleaning rag. “Whaddya mean, not exactly?”

He watches Sam wander over to the cooler and pull out a beer, waiting for an answer. His brother pops the cap off his bottle and looks back at him with a carefully neutral expression on his face. “It’s a gay bar.”

So _that’s_ what it was about the guy. “Well, I guess that’s out. Anywhere else?” Sam looks at him flatly. 

“No. There’s nowhere else he goes regularly except this place. Different grocery stores, random routes to work, lives in an apartment that’s so well protected I didn’t even wanna _try_ to get close. He’s _really_ good.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Well, then, we’ll just have to find a different angle. It’s not like we’re gonna waltz in there and _seduce_ him.”

But then Sam gives Dean a _look_ _._ The “I-don’t-like-this-any-more-than-you-do, but-it’s-still-our-best-shot” look. And with dawning horror, Dean realizes that _holy shit_ _,_ Sam’s seriously suggesting that, that they—

“Oh, no. Not happening.”

“Dean, I don’t think we have a choice.”

Dean puts his gun down, looking at Sam in incredulous disbelief. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. No way. I mean, c’mon, are you gonna do it? ‘Cause I’m sure as hell not.”

Sam huffs in exasperation. “Dean, this is all we have. We’ve been looking for a way to get close to him for almost a _week_ , and we’ve still got nothing. This is our only lead. And whatever, sue me, but I think it might actually work. He’d never expect it.”

Dean’s given up trying not to stare at Sam like he’s got two heads at this point. “You’re right. He wouldn’t. _Because it’s fucking insane._ We’re not doing it.” 

Sam glares at him for a minute, looking like he’s gearing up to fight Dean on this, but finally he just sighs gustily and rolls his eyes as he tromps over to the desk and thumps down in front of his laptop. Shaking his head a little, Dean snatches up his cleaning shit again and attacks the trigger mech of his pistol with vengeance. He’s a little (okay, more like _a lot)_ relieved that Sam’s not pushing this one. So, definitely _not_ thinking about gay he-witches, he applies himself to getting the ectoplasm out of his gun and tries to put the idea completely out of his mind.

Over the next two days, though, Sam makes it clear that he hasn’t let it go. He insists on dragging Dean all over town to trail the witch, and even Dean has to admit that it doesn’t look good. This guy’s a real slippery son of a bitch, and he’s pulling out tricks even _they’ve_ never seen before. Which is, take a wild guess, bad news for them. 

Then on Friday morning they hear about the second body in a week and a half, bringing the total up to six in the last year. It’s a young blond guy zip-tied to the radiator in a motel room this time, but they know the pattern now, so he was probably the sick bastard’s latest conquest. After flashing their badges at the green-faced deputy guarding the door and ducking into the room, Sam crouches down next to what’s left of the body and starts poking around for anything helpful. Dean manages a grand total of thirty seconds before he can’t stand the sight anymore, so he canvasses the rest of the room and carefully keeps his eyes away from the corner Sam’s in. He finds a hex bag wedged behind the bedframe (a bird’s skull, a dried hyacinth, and a couple of coins rusted beyond all recognition, just like the others) and busies himself grinding the contents into a gritty powder beneath his heel until Sam stands back up. He confirms that Sam’s finished with a terse question, and then he’s outta there as soon as he sees the responding nod.

The slam of the car door behind him doesn’t do anything to make him feel any less sick, so Dean loosens his tie, pops the top button of his dress shirt and leans his head back against the seat. _Shit_ _._ The poor guy didn’t deserve to die like that. But what are they supposed to do? 

Then Sam gets into the passenger seat, and Dean remembers his plan. His shitty, stupid, never-gonna-happen plan where one of them gets _real_ up close and personal with the thing that did _that_ _._ He can feel Sam’s pointed stare burning a hole in the side of his head, and he knows the jerk is thinking the same thing. The silence in the car thickens, and Dean stubbornly keeps his eyes closed, refusing to acknowledge that Sam might just have a point.

He hears the smack of a hand on a palm, and startled, he forgets his resolution to ignore his brother. Sam’s jaw is set determinedly, his face is serious, and he’s cupping one fist in his other hand.

“Rock, paper, scissors. Best out of three. It’s how we’re deciding who’s going in.” 

“I said no.”

“And I said this is our only option. You know I’m right. The longer we put this off, the more people are gonna die. And that’s six deaths, at an increasing rate. Seven’s the magic number for most of the really nasty rituals, you know that. _C’mon_ _,_ Dean.”

Fuck. _Fuck_ _._ Sam can take his goddamn guilt tripping and his goddamn logic and shove ‘em both where the sun don’t shine. But what choice does he have? They can’t just let these guys keep dying. Fuck.

Already regretting it, Dean puts his hands up like Sam’s and glowers into his stupid face. “For the record, this is the worst idea you’ve ever had.” Sam just grins tightly in closed lipped triumph. They play.

And guess fuckin’ what. 

Dean loses.

  
— - —

“Dean, it can’t be that bad. Just come out.” 

Sam sits on the desk in their motel room, waiting for Dean to hurry up and get out of the bathroom. Judging by the way the muttering and muffled curses have petered off, he’s at least made it _into_ the skinny jeans and tight black tee Sam picked up in town; now he just has to work up the nerve to be seen wearing them.

 _“Jesus,_ Sam, gimme a minute, will ya?”

“You’ve been in there for half an hour, Dean.”

“Screw you, jerkface.”

Sam grins and shakes his head a little, but he shuts up. He can’t believe Dean’s actually doing this, so he’s not gonna push his luck. Much. 

Dean must finally grow a pair, because after a minute more he slowly opens the bathroom door and steps out, scowling darkly and _daring_ Sam to comment on the clothes. Stiffly, he walks over to the mirror on the wall and looks himself up and down.

“I look like an idiot.” Sam can’t hold back his snort of laughter any longer, and Dean’s glower intensifies. “I don’t get why I need these.”

Sam shrugs. “This guy’s type isn’t urban lumberjack, that’s why. All the guys he’s killed, they were all—”

Dean turns around and looks at him. “They were all what.”

Sam bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing again at the expression on Dean’s face. “In the nicest possible way, they were all, um. Twinks.” But Dean doesn’t react, and Sam’s brow crinkles. “Wait, do you not know what—”

The famous Winchester bitchface appears with a vengeance. “I know what _twinks_ are, _Sam.”_

“Great. Then you know that you don’t own anything that fits the bill. Therefore, skinny jeans.”

“I hate the skinny jeans.”

“You need the skinny jeans.” Dean sighs resignedly, and Sam claps him on the shoulder as he walks past. “Alright, let’s head out. If we’re lucky, he’ll show up tonight and we can be back at Bobby’s by lunch tomorrow.” Sam opens the door and waits for Dean to follow, but Dean stays standing in the middle of the room.

Letting out a nervous laugh that doesn’t cover up the fear in his face as well as he obviously thinks it does, he says, “Sam, this isn’t gonna work.” He gestures to the pants. “I can barely walk in these things, and I don’t even wanna think about tryin’ to fight in ‘em.” He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, avoiding meeting Sam’s eyes. “And besides, how am I even supposed to, y’know…” The sentence hangs in the air, unfinished, and Sam raises his eyebrows.

“Get him interested?” Dean goes slightly pink, and Sam grins. “Come on, Dean. Don’t tell me you don’t know how to charm your way into a bed. Or a car. Or an alley.”

“That’s with _girls_ _,_ Sam. It’s _different,”_ Dean splutters. 

“Really? It’s just compliments, eye contact, innuendo. That’s not gender specific.” But Sam’s on a roll. So nonchalantly, he tacks on the kicker. “I mean, if you’re that worried about talking to him… if you play it right, you don’t have to do any talking at all.” And to top it all off, he executes the most obnoxiously suggestive waggle of his eyebrows he can muster, and _damn_ _,_ he really nailed that.

Dean gapes at him in horrified silence for a full ten seconds. It’s _glorious._ Then he slowly turns back to the mirror. 

“I can’t believe this is how I’m gonna die.”

  
— - —  
  


So there it is. That’s how Dean ended up standing in front of a gay bar in Portland with a massive neon rainbow on it, about to try his luck at seducing a stupidly powerful gay he-witch. 

Fuck. What even is his life.

It’s not like he hasn’t had to do stupid shit for cases before, he thinks as he nods awkwardly at the bouncer, forks over a five, and walks in. There’s more than a few that spring to mind: that vamp in San Diego, the spirit in Chicago a couple years ago, _Dallas_ _..._ and yep, _okay,_ someone just slapped his ass. Dean whips around, making eye contact with the guy that did it. The dude bites his lip, _winks_ _,_ and sashays off to do whatever people do in this hellhole.

Well. This is off to a _great_ start.

Hightailing it over to the bar to avoid any more unwanted ass-slapping, Dean plants himself on a barstool and takes a minute to breathe. Well, as much as he _can_ in the humid atmosphere, with the lights from the dance floor painting everything in flashes of bright colour. 

C’mon, this is dumb. He shouldn’t be _scared_ _._ He’s faced down all kinds of shit from the deepest, nastiest corners of human history, literal nightmares that would make most people shit themselves and have a heart attack, _at the same time_ _,_ if they didn’t get horribly murdered or _fucking eaten_ first. He can face down one prissy witch and some over-enthusiastic gay people.

Signalling the bartender in the confident glow of his little pep talk, he orders two shots of straight tequila. The good stuff, because Sam’s paying for this one, and Dean deserves it goddamnit. They go down smooth and tingly, and before he can get carried away he switches to beer to settle in for the waiting game.

He sends off his best “stay-the-fuck-away-from-me” vibes while still trying to look like he’s actually here because he wants to be, which works for the most part. The few brave souls who don’t pick up on the set of his shoulders (or who just don’t care) are at least pretty respectful, and Dean just has to make a vague comment about waiting for someone, sorry, can’t help you, and they back right off. He’s actually kinda proud of himself so far, but then he gets to thinking. (Always a bad idea.) What happens if this guy actually shows up? Yeah, scanning the crowd for a target is easily veiled as checking out the selection, but he’d have to... like. Hit on this guy, specifically. Which, he’s not gonna lie, freaks him out. 

It’s completely different from whenever Dean’s had, uh, encounters before. (Not anywhere near as many as he’s had with chicks. He’s just been known to get a little too drunk from time to time and make some uncharacteristic decisions. And he always feels like shit the morning after. Although, if he’s really digging into it, not for the reasons he should.) This isn’t some guy sauntering up with a suggestive grin, and Dean being buzzed enough to actually flirt back until the guy whispers something dirty or drops a cheesy pick-up line. Then they can relocate to a vehicle or a convenient alley, or _very_ occasionally, a bed. (Sam wasn’t all that far off the mark, actually.) And Dean doesn’t have to feel as bad about it, at least at the time, because it was the other guy who offered. Which, yes. He knows that doesn’t make any goddamn sense. But it works.

But this, _this_ makes him feel exposed and vulnerable in a way he _definitely_ doesn’t like. There ain’t no backing out, either, because this is completely for the good of the town.

And y’know, because Winchesters are just _that_ lucky, Dean sees the witch walk in the door right that moment. 

_Fuck._

Okay. Showtime. The guy’s coming over to the bar, so at least Dean doesn’t have to venture out onto the dancefloor, which he’s been trying not to look too closely at. (Mostly. Okay, so maybe there’s been a couple times he’s gotten a little distracted, but that’s not the point here.) The witch takes a seat a couple down from Dean, and looks hungrily out over the sea of undulating bodies. 

Alright. Here we go.

Dean leans forward, tapping his bottle on the wood counter to get the bartender’s attention. Grinning a little, he jerks his head at the witch and slides a twenty across the bar. “Anything he wants, on me. Keep the change. And, uh, feel free to let ‘im know who’s buying.” 

The bartender winks. “Sure thing, pal. Good luck.”

It’s only a handful of steps down the bar to the dark-haired witch, so Dean has to think of a game plan fast. Stalling by taking a generous gulp of his beer, he watches out of the corner of his eye as the witch follows the bartender’s nod and settles his gaze heavily on Dean. Lowering his bottle, Dean chances a look and meets a pair of intense, dark eyes. He tips his head invitingly, letting a heavy-lidded gaze wander over the witch’s slim, serpentine form. He gets a self-satisfied smirk in return, and the witch oozes out of his seat with a girly-lookin’ orange drink in hand to saunter over to Dean’s side.

Holy shit. That worked? He hadn’t even done anything different from usual.

Then the witch is all up in his space, the smell of expensive cologne clinging to his skin and curling around Dean in a heady cloud. Dean has to look up at him slightly, his seat at the bar making him just a little shorter, and he puts on a suggestive grin that’s only a little shaky. “Hey.”

The witch smiles enigmatically. “Hey yourself. Thanks for the drink, handsome.”

Dean shrugs and hopes the blush he feels heating his cheeks isn’t as bad as he thinks it is. “It got you over here, didn’t it?” Shit, this is weird. There are butterflies doing aerial maneuvers in his stomach, and worst of all, it’s not an entirely _bad_ feeling. 

The witch leans in closer and rests a warm hand on Dean’s arm. Dean jumps, and the witch’s smile sharpens into something a little more predatory. “My name’s Callan. What’s yours?”

(Callan? Jesus, witches are weird.) Dean clears his suddenly dry throat to respond. “Uh. It’s, uh, Eric.”

Callan grins easily. “Eric. I wonder, what’s someone like you doing sitting alone at the bar? You must have your pick of company.”

Dean pretends to think about it for a second. “Yeah, well…” He wets his lips and lets his teeth catch on the bottom one. “Didn’t see anyone who had what I was looking for. That is, until you.”

(Jesus _christ,_ you idiot, what _are_ you? A two-bit whore?)

Callan tilts his head, his eyes sliding back up to meet Dean’s. That cringey-ass line must’ve worked, though (miracle of miracles), because he looks _serious,_ now. “I see. Looks like you’re almost done with that beer. Shots, on me? It’s the _least_ I can do.” He’s wearing eyeliner, Dean notices offhandedly, and damn, it makes him absolutely fuckin’ _hypnotic._

Dean manages a grin. “Hell yeah.”

Callan chuckles, summoning the bartender with a snap of his fingers. What an asshole. He orders two shots of vodka, and he and Dean throw them back without breaking eye contact.

Dean thumps his shot glass down, and when he looks back up he finds Callan much closer than he had been a minute ago. He swallows convulsively, and desperately thinks about the kid in the motel room earlier today. Josh, twenty. Brutally murdered by this fuckin’ dickwad, whose palm has slid way high up on Dean’s thigh and is making it _really_ hard to think about anything else.

Callan’s nose brushes Dean’s cheek as he brings his lips close to Dean’s ear, breath puffing hotly against his neck. “Eric,” he purrs, “let’s cut the bullshit. You wanna get outta here, don’t you? You want me to take you home with me?” His voice flows over Dean like honey. “Because I want that too.”

Dean shivers involuntarily, turning his face in towards the witch’s (goddamn it Winchester, remember what he fucking _is,_ he wants to _harvest your organs)_ and saying, “Yeah.” It comes out breathy, like a whimper or a sigh, and Dean cringes. But Callan pulls back, raking a blistering gaze over him, and tugs him off his stool towards the door.

Callan guides him with a hand pressed to the small of his back, and Dean thinks it’s a good thing they’re moving so fast, because he has no goddamn idea what to do with his own hands. Or limbs in general. He feels kinda wobbly.

They burst out into the cool night, the sudden separation from the lights and sound clearing Dean’s head a little. It’s sobering, and he jolts into high alert, the low-burning hate of the guy at his side tempering the weird, slightly aroused twitchiness he’s developed. Sam’s watching the club, waiting for Dean to come out with the witch. They wanted to try and get this over with ASAP, to make sure the witch has as little reaction time as they can manage. But they’re definitely heading for that red sports car at the far end of the parking lot, fuck, so it looks like they’ll have to scrap part two of the plan and do this here. (Part two involved an alley, an alley that’s behind them now, halfway across the parking lot. Dean’s already way past the point where trying to drag the witch back there would be anything less than suicide.)

Thankfully they left during something of a lull, and there’s no one in the parking lot with them at the moment. They’re almost at the car now, and Dean’s starting to panic. He needs to think of something to give Sam time to make his way over and sneak up on them. But now Callan’s keys are jingling in his hand, and Dean can tell he’s about to go around to the other side of the car to slide into the driver’s seat.

So Dean kisses him.

Well, that’s pretty generous. He grabs a couple handfuls of Callan’s shirt and slams him up against the side of the car while kind of squashing their faces together and hoping for the best as he desperately tries to shut off his brain. 

Callan makes a muffled noise of surprise, one hand latching onto Dean’s arm and the other sliding into his hair, and after a moment he tightens his grip to tug Dean’s head back. Dean may or may not make a small noise in his throat at the jolt of not-quite-discomfort. 

Callan’s grin is wolfish, and Dean is suddenly very aware of how they’re plastered together from hip to chest. "Impatient, are we?"

Dean laughs wheezily and unwinds his shaky fingers from Callan’s shirt. "Guilty as charged."

Callan quirks an eyebrow, and then suddenly Dean’s the one being pressed against the cold metal frame of the car, hands braced against the door and a breath whooshing out of his chest. His mouth goes dry as Callan drops his hand to the back of Dean’s neck and trails the other down his chest. “Well. I’m not complaining.”

Then he’s pulling Dean in for a kiss of his own, just as bruising as the first one but with infinitely more technique. Dean’s brain just fuckin’ shorts out, his hands clamping onto the other man’s hips as tongue starts getting involved, and then he’s lost in the warmth of Callan’s mouth, the scratch of nails through his hair, the thigh starting to work it’s way between his legs. And when Callan jerks and gasps against his mouth, it takes Dean a good few seconds to realize that’s not a sexy gasp.

That’s an “oh shit, I’ve just been stabbed” gasp.

Dean freezes as Cal— as the _witch_ slips out of his arms, falling to the pavement with a groan. (Not a sexy groan, either.) He looks down at the dying witch, and a sick kind of triumph settles over him. He grimaces. “Shoulda thought with your head instead of your dick, asshole.”

A squawk of half-laughter, half-horror comes from his right, and Dean jerks his head up to look at Sam, face going beet red in embarrassment. 

Sam clears his throat. “So, uh. That’s it.”

Dean runs a nervous hand through his thoroughly messed up hair. “Yup.”

They stand there for a good minute in awkward silence, staring at each other like a couple of idiots. Then Dean looks back down at the body and scuffs his boot against the ground.

“We’ve gotta salt n’ burn this.”

Sam starts a little. “Yeah. Yeah, shit, you’re right.”

“Yeah. Help me get him into this fuckin’ ugly car.”

That makes Sam laugh, and the unsaid words looming between them dissipate into the darkness. They load up the body, Sam tosses Dean the keys, and then he ducks into the red Corolla as Dean walks over to the Impala. 

He gets in and sits for a minute, staring out through the windshield. Then he lets himself rest his head against the steering wheel for a count of ten, and after he’s done that, he starts up the car and follows Sam away from the bar. 

His hands are clenched around the wheel so hard that his knuckles gleam white through his skin. 

  
— - —

Come morning, Sam doesn’t mention the jeans shoved into the dinky plastic garbage can in the bathroom or the half-empty minibar. He’s as good as his word, and acts like the whole thing never happened. Like he didn’t watch a very male witch slam his brother up against a car and kiss him stupid. Like he didn’t see Dean getting pretty into it, too. Jesus.

He’s just horribly, annoyingly normal. And Dean is losing his goddamn mind.

He jumps whenever Sam talks to him, and he can’t stop watching his brother like a hawk, waiting for _something:_ a nasty joke, the beginning of a heart-to-heart, hell, even a weird _look._ But Sam just putters around the room packing up his shit, calling Bobby to let him know they took care of it, and sending emails or some crap on his laptop. 

Dean doesn’t get it. So when they finally get into the car to leave, he rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans and looks over at Sam. 

“Alright, get it over with. Just say it.”

Sam looks up from his book, confused. “Say what?”

Dean flounders. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. “I dunno. Whatever you’re obviously jonesin’ to.”

Sam tilts his head. “You mean, about last night? I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t.”

Sam’s face scrunches up a little. “Unless you _do_ , in which case…”

“No! God, no.”

“Right.”

“Yeah.”

Sam subsides into awkward silence, and Dean kind of wishes he could just disappear. 

“Can we get going then?”

Dean silently puts the car into gear and pulls out of the parking lot. Sam doesn’t open his book back up, just stares out the windshield at the road with a thoughtful look on his face. Dean glances nervously at him a couple times, but he still doesn’t do anything, so Dean hits play on the tape deck and tries to relax as “Don’t Fear The Reaper” starts piping through the speakers. It doesn’t help much. 

But Dean can only stay on high alert for so long, and by the time they’ve been on the highway for about two hours he’s finally kind of relaxed. Sam had gone back to his book about ten minutes in, and Dean’s since switched from Blue Öyster Cult to Nazareth. 

He’s just started nodding his head along to the opening chords of “Hair Of The Dog” when Sam reaches over and turns down the volume. Dean opens his mouth to protest, but then he looks over and his mouth snaps shut again. Because Sam has the determined set to his mouth that usually means he’s about to say something about _feelings_ that Dean’s not gonna like. 

Dean turns back to the road, steeling himself for whatever crap Sam’s about to spout. He’s taking his sweet time, too. Dean can feel Sam staring at him. 

“You know that I just want you to be happy, right?”

Dean slowly looks over, utterly confused. “Um. What?”

Sam just blinks at him. “I said, I just want you to be happy. Whatever that looks like. Just wanted to make sure you knew.”

The shape of what he’s getting at clicks into place in Dean’s thoughts, but he’s not touchin’ that shit with a ten-foot pole. 

“Right. Thanks, Mr. Sensitive.”

Sam snorts, but he seems satisfied, thank god, and goes back to his book like the happy little nerd he is. Dean cranks the music back up, guns the car, and speeds them down the highway back towards Bobby’s. And he finally relaxes enough to just enjoy the drive.

Funnily enough, next week there’s a guy in the bar Dean finds himself in. A hot guy, who keeps catching Dean’s eye. Normally, he’d just keep doing his own thing, and if the guy came over, then maybe something’d happen.

But tonight, Dean swaggers over with a cocky, charming grin on his face, and says, “Is this seat taken?”

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: Dean picks "Eric" because of my boy Eric Clapton, who has some of the sickest guitar out there. Check out "Layla", "Sunshine of Your Love", and "Cocaine" for the experience.
> 
> The title is from the Lou Reed song of the same name, which is also a bop. ;)


End file.
